Moirai
by wreckofherheart
Summary: Death is an archive of memories. Memories of faces, of joyful eyes; the looks he was gifted with. Devotion only a bastard would know.
**author's note** : Spoilers for Season 6.

Just a small oneshot, if Jon did endure a kind of "afterlife".

* * *

And there was nothing.

Nothing which Jon can touch, kiss and breathe.

Yet his fingertips have turned to ice, his tongue to ash, and the very feet he stands on crumbled away; like brick. Like a tower, fallen to the earth.

The boy sees. Sees faces, colours; love dancing through the clouds. He reaches out. And however hard he tries, none of these beautiful faces can be felt. The reality is not reality at all; it is nothing. Memories of a life he so carelessly held to his heart.

Robb is alive.

And Robb is smiling, and his eyes are wide with joy, and he exclaims. Exclaims at his relief, at how _overwhelmed_ he is to finally touch Jon, to finally cuddle him so _close_. To never let go, and weep into Jon's shoulder. But as he comes closer, as Jon feels the world topple, Robb doesn't catch him. Not fast enough. Because one second, Robb is there, smiling, rosy-cheeked and happy; and the next Jon is collapsed in the snow, bleeding and gasping.

The afterlife is a cruel mess.

When Jon blinks up at the blue sky, the snowflakes which caress his body, he notices a tall figure, leaning over him. Jon tries to speak, but his throat narrows, and he bursts into tears. Jon is a baby, wailing, screaming; he is in agony and needs to be loved. But no one will love him. He isn't wanted. He is a scar on the House of Stark. One which refuses to budge.

So the baby cries, and the baby cries, and then the baby cries.

Until it happens.

A mother lifts his small, fragile body from the snow. She trembles, holds her breath at the sight of him; but she is not in awe. Not admiring his beauty, his innocence. The baby glances at what holds him, and the picture of her face stuns the baby. He blinks, and suddenly, there isn't a need to cry anymore. Because this woman, this woman who is not his mother, watches him as if he is the most important, the most crucial, the most _damaging_ thing to ever happen.

The baby _knows_ that face. The dark, red hair; tired eyes. The face of betrayal, of reluctance; this face who has observed and studied him for _years_. The face of a mother who has tried so desperately hard to love him, to want him, to see him as her own baby boy. All of those fruitless attempts shine in her eyes when she sobs quietly, and holds him so fiercely, as if afraid he might disappear, afraid he might get away too soon. She loves him in the most loveless way.

Oh, Jon. My poor baby.

 _Why can't I kill you?_

Suddenly the face is gone, her arms have fled his body, and the baby is no longer.

Jon can remember. How she looked when the sun caressed her cheeks. How all sense had been lost in that moment. How wonderful, how mesmerising she appeared to him atop of the mountain. When the snow melted between them, and the sky was splashed with colours of red, yellow, blue and white; a maddened sky only the Gods could create.

That was when he loved. When he loved her, needed her; and couldn't imagine a realm in which he and her were separated. When he was certain that her very absence would crush his heart; a heart already bruised and bleeding by a mother he wished would love him.

'Ygritte?'

Although he hears her name echo in his mind, nothing escapes. The boy is silent.

So, she kisses him; the girl kisses his lips, and she tastes of fire, smells of victory, of everything he has ever wanted. She touches him softly, dearly; and he becomes everything. To this one person, this girl, he becomes _everything_.

Before dead. A fallen angels in his breaking arms.

Jon sees the face of a father he worshipped, sees the face of a nephew he never met, of faces he has slaughtered, and the voices of men and women he would give his life for. He sees his life before him: those who hated him, and those who loved him. Jon's heart shatters in his chest, and he collapses to his knees; the snow is a robe on his back, and he realises that this is death.

Death is an archive of memories. Memories of faces, of joyful eyes; the looks he was gifted with. Devotion only a bastard would know.

'Come back, little Jon. Come back.'

He doesn't recognise the voice, but he can still hear his mother. A woman he has never seen, never touched, never known. She is close, yet not close enough; and he hears her again–this soft, sweet lullaby. To come back, to come back; _come back, little Jon_.

Jon wakes up. He gasps, and his heart thuds in his ears.

Living is rich, and heavy; living is his dream, and death his reality.

So when The Red Woman asks what he saw, what he endured, what had happened, Jon is still. He cannot feel, can barely focus his mind; those faces are vague, distant and too far gone. The boy looks at her, blinks, and exhales slowly.

There had been death.

And there was nothing.


End file.
